


Apostate

by pridecookies



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Blood Mages, Mages, Mages (Dragon Age), One Shot, Other, Sided with Mages, Tranquil Mages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:07:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28008183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pridecookies/pseuds/pridecookies
Summary: Malcolm Hawke speaks to his father about what it means to be an apostate in a world that marks you by it.
Relationships: Male Hawke/Malcolm Hawke
Kudos: 2





	Apostate

Malcolm Hawke stood at the barn door, leaning against it with a soured expression and defensive arrogance that had become something of a usual cloak he wore. His father was tending to the cattle, tensed and unyielding in his focus. He did look at his son, his eldest, the one who bore his namesake. He worked steadily, his hands worn from years in Lothering, taking up a layman's work. Though a mage of significant skill, you could never tell from his hands. Malcolm leaned his head against the barn door, waiting for his father to speak. He didn’t. He remained in the silence, increasing the tension. 

“Was there something you wanted?” Malcolm asked after a moment, openly annoyed. His father looked up at him, kind blue eyes searching for a semblance of connection with his son and finding only defense. He smiled, briefly, and returned to his work with the cattle. It seemed like he was checking them, his hands pressing against the bones in their legs, looking for injury or weakness, offering comfort as he did so with tenderness. But that was apt, wasn’t it? Malcolm Hawke, Sr., Circle mage runaway and apostate, was always a man looking for weakness to strengthen. 

“Yes, there was,” he sighed and stood, surveyed the barn, “Sit down.”

Malcolm stared at him a moment and his father stared back. Then, he acquiesced and sat down on a nearby bale of hay, waiting for the inevitable crucifixion he usually received. He leaned against the back of the hay bale, arms crossed. 

“All parents damage their children, you know,” he started. This was not as expected. Malcolm sat up slightly as his father continued, “It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair. But if there is anything I heal in you, know that being a mage is something to be proud of, whatever Thedas might say.”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes, “This feels rather disjointed. Usually you’re yelling at me for setting something on fire.”

His father smiled, “When I was your age, family was all I could think about. They took me to the Circle when I was six years old, I never knew my family. I couldn’t shake the heartache that it was all I ever wanted, and I would never have it. When I met your mother—” he sighed, “—well, I knew that I would do anything for that dream, I would  _ risk _ anything to be free for her. And I did. But, it didn’t change what I am, what you are, what Bethany is. We have the ability to level entire towns if we wish it. Power like that, it corrupts so easily. Templars know that, fear it. The Chantry fears it. You should fear it.”

Malcolm lifted a brow, “You’re trying to scare me on purpose. How Andrastian of you.”

His father took in a deep breath and set his hands on his hips, approaching his son and sitting next to him on the ragged hay bale. 

“No,” he said at last, “I am just warning you. Be proud but be careful of your power, you hold the ability to heal and destroy in your hands and in your head. Use it wisely. Watch Bethany, be a guide. Lead her. I am counting on you to be wise where she is naive.”

“Was that really why you left the Circle,” Malcolm murmured, “Just for Mother?”

His father smiled, “I wanted to leave my entire life. Love for your mother gave me the courage to leap into the abyss that freedom provided. We had no guarantees but we had each other and we had the promise of you. That was more than enough reason to run.”

“Family.”

“Family, Malcolm,” his father said, setting a hand on his shoulder, “Family.”

Malcolm was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. He glanced over at his father. 

“I don’t know how to be what they need to be,” he said softly, “Bethany and Carver. They look at me like I am supposed to know something.”

“You’re their brother. They’re always going to look to you like you know something.”

“I’m going to fail them.”

“Yes,” he father smiled, “You will. People always fail. Do your best anyway.”

“If my best isn’t enough?”

“It won’t always be, that’s a promise. You are going to fail. You fail constantly. You upset your mother at least once a week and frustrate me twice that much. But you’re our son and grappling with something I understand the complexity of.” His father held out a hand and arcane light pooled from his palm, illuminating the barn. “The Maker set us apart, in His own way. It is no small thing to be singled out by Him, for better or for ill.” He closed his hand and sheaved the flame. “My greatest hope for you and Bethany and Carver is that you always have each other, that you grow old and see the joys and heartache of each other's lives, that you never know the separation the Circle can bring you. And I hope you love someone enough to fight for them, the way I fought for your mother. The joy is so much more vibrant when you wipe away the ashes and broken pieces of the past to find it.”

Malcolm was silent, staring at his hands. He was quieter than usual, his thoughts dwelling on the darker corners of himself, the things that raged against the ever-present silent promise of the Chantry that hung in the air: you are a mistake, a burden, you are to be feared. He wasn’t like his father, kindness and temperance and faith. There was a tension in him that grew every year, hungry and angry and all-encompassing. It prompted him to set something on fire, to open his arms and accept the chaos he could bring, to give-in to the whispers of things in the Fade that told him he could temper Thedas for mages if he just rid them of their leash, ripped it from the grip of the Templars, cut off the hands of the captors with violent finality. But that was not his father’s legacy. He looked at him and took in a deep breath, flexing the fingers that could bring so much destruction, if he wished it. 

“I’m not like you,” he said softly, “I don’t want to be.”

“I don’t expect you to be,” his father sighed, “You forced your way into the world whether I liked it or not, you are capable of great and terrible things. All mages are.”

“Seems the latter is all the Chantry cares about.”

“Yes, it seems that way. People are afraid of what they can’t control. The Chantry has power in Southern Thedas, they want to keep it.”

“Then someone should take it from them.”

“Someone like you?”

Malcolm lifted a brow, “No.”

“Things could be different, one day. Maybe. For now, you’re an apostate.”

“Practically branded on my back.”

His father smiled, sadly, “There are worse things to be branded on you, Malcolm,” he gestured to his forehead, “There are far worse things.”


End file.
